Torsten Dahl book 1 - Stand Your Ground (20 page)

“I understand,” Johanna said. “This man, Grant, is the worst of his kind. The things he said . . . about . . .” She swallowed drily as she glanced toward the children. “I’d never repeat.”

“I know.”

“The world would be better without him.”

Dahl smiled grimly. “Will be,” he said. “Will be.”

“He holds a grudge against you.”

“For a long time now.” Dahl nodded. “He holds me responsible for the death of his wife and daughter. The worst part of it is – I see his point of view. I see through his eyes,
his
mentality, and know how he arrived at that point. But it’s garbage. Twisted, perverse logic that, deep down, he knows contradicts every fact of the event. He knows, but yearns for some kind of revenge.”

“Be careful, Torsten.”

She didn’t pile on the questions. No guilt. No second-guessing. Just an acceptance that he had to end this now, tonight, or they’d be suffering through the rest of their lives and through the generations.

Dahl placed a hand on her arm. “I will. You know me.”

“The Mad Swede? I don’t think so.”

Dahl saw a sadder future, where he abandoned his family and sought out their enemies, only to return and find he’d truly lost everything. Maybe Johanna and Dario couldn’t protect the kids.
He
was the soldier after all.

You can’t just leave Vega and Grant out there, wandering the world like viruses.

More to the point, what would stop Vega or Grant seeking them out next week, or next year?

“If I don’t return, you know what to do.”

Johanna squeezed his hand. “I hate to hear you say that but, yes, I know who to talk to.”

“They’ll bring thunder and lightning. They’ll make Grant’s world a volcanic wasteland.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“You’ll be safe if you trust them.”

“I want
you
, Torsten. Not them. I really do.”

Dahl struggled to remain focused. Isabella and Julia peered around their mother’s side, eyes deep and wet and impossible to discount. The love that radiated from his children’s eyes melted his heart.

And hardened his will. He had to end the larger threat.

For you. For your future and your mother’s future and to slow the destruction of a thousand other futures.

He studied Dario and checked the makeshift bandage he’d fashioned from Jo’s shawl. The outflow of blood had reduced to a trickle. The quandary remained. Good sense dictated that he return to one of the many refreshment stands and appropriate juices and food, in particular for Dario, but harsh reality told him every second he didn’t pursue Grant was one more nail hammered deep in someone’s coffin.

He reviewed his options once more: He could keep on running with his family, leave them and seek help, or stay and protect them. Each of those options meant worrying about creeping consequences later.

Or he could proceed as planned.

For my family and for others, I will stand my ground.

THIRTY FIVE

Dahl borrowed Dario’s gun, still with six bullets in the mag, two guns now giving him double the firepower, and turned his thoughts toward a new dilemma. Where would Grant even be? How did you locate a trio of cockroaches in the entirety of Barbados? Before he could apply his mind to that, he still had to say a few painful goodbyes. There was no way of rationalizing what he was about to do. The Mad Swede had stayed quiet until now; the dark side had to have its day. To explain, to justify one action in the face of all the others he could carry out, was beyond him; but it was clear
within
him. Inside every layer, every pore, every pulsing blood vessel.

“Good luck,” Johanna said. “I love you. Now, go.”

And there it was, laid out better than he could have put it, so clean and pure it was like a fresh snowfall.

Two young people didn’t quite see it that way, hanging onto his arms because of the doubts they had. Everything they had been through today had not only depleted all their reserves and overwhelmed their minds, it had also helped them recognize at least one vital ideal Dahl had been trying to teach them all their young lives.

Family
. If you were lucky enough to have a loving, caring family, you should fight to hold on to it, fight and scrap and brawl for it until your nails were bloody, your voice ragged, your options spent.
Fight
.

They clung to him and he knelt to face them.

“Only
we
can look after each other, Dad,” Isabella said in her light sing-song voice. “That’s what you say.” Her eyes were earnest, deep as pools.

“We can only fully rely on each other,” he said. “Just family. Just us. That’s what I meant.”

“Then why are you leaving?” Julia asked.

He coughed to give himself a moment. “To make us safe forever.”

His children accepted it but still clung on, probably relying on what instinct told them at a profound level. Johanna felt to her knees beside them and said more soothing words.

“Let Dad go to work,” she said finally.

“Be back soon to tuck you in,” he said and turned to Johanna. Quickly, he laid out his plan both for her and for Dario.

Then he walked away.

*

The streets of Bridgetown still reeled from the festive assault, the main arteries clogged to near impassable. Oblivious revelers crowded together, many weary from the night’s fun but just as many using the carnival as a mere warm-up act to the main event. Sirens split the night air, common in any major city, and the presence of cops and marshals only served to instil a broodier, perturbed air in the crowd. Ambulances crept slowly through the throng, and any casualties would be put down to the density of people and intensities of the celebrations – at least for now. Dahl still had the city map Johanna had snagged earlier but the main focus of his thoughts rested around where he believed his quarry would be.

Grant. Vega. Sealy. Working together. Meeting together after the parade, or after the speech. That made more sense, and meant Sealy would have to follow some kind of protocol. If he’d been meeting local trendsetters say, or a celeb or even a visiting dignitary, the PM might have whisked them away to a high-profile restaurant or luxurious hotel. But criminals? Even faceless ones?

As a head of state, he would take them to the same place he’d take any politician, banker or Wall Street investor.

He’d take them to his residence.

Dahl’s theory derived partly from logic, but mostly from experience – where else would these figureheads of misconduct feel safe enough to discuss their plans? Nowhere else in Barbados fit that particular bill.

Dahl took a moment to conceal the handgun as best he could and tidy himself up in the reflection of a shop window. Considering all that had happened today, he didn’t feel too bad physically. Bruises and scrapes would heal, and were necessary, truth be told. No way did he want to come out of this day looking as if nothing had happened. The backup he’d called would show no remorse with their biting wit . . .

Once they knew everyone was safe.

Dahl checked the map, which pinpointed the PM’s residence as near the St. Lawrence Gap. He traced his finger along Government Hill, past Two Mile Hill, and then came to Illaro Court, Sealy’s home for what the PM imagined would be a little while longer.

A good 30-minute walk. Maybe more.

He set out, wondering if he might be able to thumb a ride, then remembering he couldn’t trust anyone, even cops. He now took out the phone he’d stolen earlier, checked his team status, and advised them where to find his family. It was risk-free – he couldn’t imagine Sealy having a listening station – and one way of setting his mind at rest. Preparing for the hour or so ahead.

They were still a few hours out. Truth be told he’d been hoping for better news, maybe even a little help, but here he was. Trusting no one.

Except your family.

Isabella and Julia’s faces swam around his conscience and Dahl made himself stop, breathe deeply, and tried to remember the soldier he’d been only a few days ago. One thing was certain – he’d never survive without the soldier within.

Only ending this tonight would end it forever, he reminded himself.

But Torsten Dahl, normally the man who brought the full force, felt like half an army.

THIRTY SIX

Illaro Court was a walled residence, set back not far off a main road. Dahl studied its picturesque surroundings as he walked, picking out several thick stands of trees that might prove useful, all dotted around half-a-dozen well-kept lawns. The main wrought-iron gates were closed, the white pillars to either side not terribly imposing but mounted with CCTV units. Of course, Dahl had no intention of using the front gate. A long walk around the residence revealed St. Barnabas Heights, a small housing development backing onto Illaro Court. Dahl found no difficulties in reaching the trees that bounded the PM’s property walls. The issue now was cameras. This far away he hoped there would be none; it seemed a little overkill, but as he approached the wall itself, Dahl knew his odds lessened with every step.

Darkness pressed at his every pore, smothering his face with a welcome anonymity. The ground beneath his feet was soft, squelchy, as if it had been watered recently. Twigs littered the pathways, forcing him to tread lightly. A faint scent wafted through the night, smoked meat perhaps, reminding him that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten properly. He’d already skirted most of the high wall and found it solid up to this point, and not overlooked. The point where he gazed now, however, saw it bend away from the houses, through an area of open ground and past one solitary tree. The good news was that it also bordered the extreme rear of the mansion’s lawn.

He cinched what was left of the shawl tighter around his waist, ensuring the guns stayed put, then climbed the lone tree, taking great care.

The truth was he saw no sign of cameras. Most likely, they were positioned around the inside exterior of the property, along with all the other security devices he came across quite frequently in his line of work. His state of mind declared quite openly that he was entering this residence one way or the other, so to hell with any cameras he couldn’t actually see.

Once he was able to see over the wall, Dahl paused. A wide, rectangular parking area led to the house, which was an old, two-story affair with balconies and railings, extensions and too many windows to count. The parking area revealed the haphazard arrangement of the PM’s limo and two black Range Rovers. If he were a betting man, Dahl would put his lunch on the vehicles being the very ones that abducted Johanna.

There appeared to be a smaller building beside the parking area, maybe a storage shed or guardhouse. Dahl saw three men outside, none of them vigilant, two standing together talking and the other leaning against the limo, smoking a cigarette. A careful study of the residence, its sides and bordering trees, revealed no other signs of life. Cameras on poles stood well-spaced out, and there were probably more fixed to the eaves of the house. If so, Dahl couldn’t spy them in the dark.

Nevertheless, he moved forward, never back. In sync with his day’s luck so far the tree branches were all much too flimsy to carry him over the wall, so he put his back against the moss-covered stone, his feet on the solid tree trunk, and used a method he called ‘chimneying’ to ascend. Foot to hand, slide up with the back, other foot to hand, and so on, an inch at a time until he neared the top of the wall. Still hidden, he paused, wishing the fire he’d started along the length of his spine would peter out. Now came the hardest part. Flexing his thighs he twisted around so that he could peer over the top of the wall, then waited until fortune cast a welcome shadow over the proceedings. The shadow eventually came as Dahl’s twisted muscles moved along the pain gauge from merely agonizing to absolute torture, and as the three men appeared to end their conversations and retire to the guardhouse. Perhaps this had been their hourly patrol; Dahl wasn’t sure, but he used the few minutes’ grace to manipulate his frame onto the top of the wall and then to slip over.

Landing feet first, he crouched low, absorbing the impact and making less noise than a falling branch. Stars glittered far above, but shadows still ruled the night, draping their all-encompassing shrouds from his head to his toes. Stark light pooled nearer the house. No security lights flashed on and off, because the guards would ask for them to be disabled, and he saw no nestling cameras anywhere around the eaves.

Can’t be this easy
.

Dahl’s experience told him that you couldn’t deal with things you couldn’t see. Who knew how carefully guarded this residence was? He wasn’t talking about the White House here, but infra-red and lasers, pressure pads and sensors were all possibilities. Dahl decide to deal with that problem if and when it arose. There were options — both for escape and attack — and he’d committed them to memory now. Sealy and his entourage were already hunting him – what did he have to lose?

Knowledge and skill also told him to take his time; his own know-how would win through and reveal an answer. His steps were short, his movements contained. He remained attuned to every rustle and crunch, made himself grow accustomed to the dull, distant laughs and cheers coming from the guardhouse so that the moment they changed timbre he would know. He examined every inch of the way ahead before each precise step, just in case more guards were out there.

His precautions paid off.

Positioned in shadow, far ahead between the wall and the house, he saw a dark figure make a transferal of weight, heard the faint rattle of a weapon against rough bark. A man stood there, a silent watcher.

There would be others.

No mind. Dahl was a Special Forces ghost, stealing the light as he glided along, embracing the dark with intimate ease. Some of Sealy’s men might be military trained, but not a man among them would have Dahl’s experience, his expertise. This was business as usual; a deliverance from evil dressed in a t-shirt, swim-shorts and wearing a shawl.